


Nobody Played A Paladin

by bushybeardedbear



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: F/M, That Feel When The Show Is Doing Your Idea But Better... Somewhere Between Joy and Wut?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-14
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2019-05-23 09:23:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14931564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bushybeardedbear/pseuds/bushybeardedbear
Summary: "Pidge breathed deeply in through the nose and out again through the mouth. Steadying herself, calming herself. She had run the game plenty of times back on Earth. Just, online. She knew the rules by heart. However, this was the first time sitting down at a table with actual people, as she had always wanted to try. Matt and she had gone through one or two adventures together, taking turns behind the screen, but that was hardly running for a full table. Even though or maybe perhaps because it was her five closest friends in the universe, the nervousness was beginning to weigh heavily on her."





	1. Crazy As Using THAC0

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be – as some of you already know – an entry for the Voltron Positivity Event that ended up taking on a life of it's own. Now, this is still far from complete. Not long after finding out the staff have already been working on a superior version, I found the wind knocked a little out of my sails when it comes to wanting to write this. In fact the sails got struck by lightning and burned to a crisp. So, I figured I can at least get some of it out in the wild. Maybe some positive feedback can encourage me to believe this is not a wasted effort...? Still excited to see the official episode of course! Though in the meantime, maybe someone can get a kick out of this inferior take on the idea. Hope you enjoy it!

**Chapter One:** **C** **razy As Using THAC0**

Pidge breathed deeply in through the nose and out again through the mouth. Steadying herself, calming herself. She had run the game plenty of times back on Earth. Just, online. She knew the rules by heart. However, this was the first time sitting down at a table with actual people, as she had always wanted to try. Matt and she had gone through one or two adventures together, taking turns behind the screen, but that was hardly running for a full table. Even though or maybe perhaps _because_ it was her five closest friends in the universe, the nervousness was beginning to weigh heavily on her. For the twentieth or thirtieth time she scoured the play area. Each player had their character sheets. Each player had their own set of seven polyhedral dice, the most recent set – a translucent blue for Lance – were fresh from the 3D printer she had recently cobbled together from odds and ends. Each player had a pencil, a small colour coded cone for their place on the map and easy access to said map. Exactly the way it was the last time she checked just a few ticks ago. Pidge took her seat at the head of the table again, rummaging through and re-reading her notes for the session ahead. It wasn't the most complex of adventures, sure, but the rest of the table were only beginners.

The far door hissed softly open, a cheery Shiro was first to arrive with a kind wave. He looked quizzically about the table, examining one of Hunk's yellow dice, the kind he was most familiar with. Six sides, little cube, nice and simple. The oddest part was that rather than pips, the six sides printed the numbers in white. The other shapes of dice were all quite outside his field of expertise. Though, from elementary 3D geometry, he did recognise most as Platonic Solids. “I thought you said this was just a board game, Pidge...” He examined a dice with 10 sides, or so it seemed at a cursory glance.

“Tabletop Roleplaying Game.” Pidge corrected, “They were, in fact, my _exact_ words...” She pointed with a heavy wad of paper from behind her hefty wood-effect screen. It was quite the intimidating piece, three panels depicting a Red Dragon on one side, a Golden Dragon on the other and a wizard wielding dark magic gesturing to an army of minions in the middle. Mostly though, it was there to shield her rolls from the eyes of the other players, as well as provide quick reference for her. Not that she would need them. “You're sat just there.” She instructed.

Shiro looked at his own dice, black and gold, with equal confusion. The sheet of paper before him yielded no clues, “Lysander My... Thrill Beard...?” He read aloud, “Male Dwarf Cleric of... _Aaa ooo_ ? Level 5...” He smiled nervously, “Strength... Dexterity... Armour Class... Passive Perception... Pidge...is any of this supposed to mean anything to me...?”

“It gets easier as it goes along.” Pidge assured him, “Best way to learn is to play. All you need to know right now is you're a good and holy dwarf, you cure the sick, aid the weary and guide the lost. You can call on your faith to harm or repel the undead. You're a priest, but don't forget your Hammer isn't just for show. Your family name is pronounced _Meethrill_ Beard, y'know, like the metal? Well, the _fictional_ metal... Knowing how to pronounce your family name is important to Dwarfs, very big on the whole ancestors thing. Oh, also, your deity is pronounce _Ay – Oh_ just like the two letters. Don't want your Cleric committing blasphemy!” She grinned happily. “Oh, and if you're confused by any of your spells, just ask!”

Shiro nodded, still worriedly looking over the mess of numbers and words on his sheet. “Ok...sure...”  
  
Hunk entered, baring freshly made snacks piled high on several plates. Though he soon realised there was to be very little space to put them. With a frown, he started to set each down on the four corners of the table. Finally, Hunk sat himself down opposite Shiro with a grin and a mouthful of fruity pastry treat. Well, _pastry_? It was close, but not quite perfectly the same recipe. Hunk had named the flaky treat Spastry.

“I'd better not see your sheet covered in crumbs, Hunk...” Pidge's icy tone shot him a warning. 

Hunk brushed the crumbs away. “You won't see a thing!” He cheerfully responded. It wasn't long however before his face mirrored Shiro's. A look somewhere in between utter horror and mind bending confusion. “If I'm an Archer, how come I don't have... Y'know... _Archery_ as a skill...?” Hunk pointed to a list of skills on the right hand side of his sheet. 

“Archery is a combat proficiency, not a skill.” Pidge responded absentmindedly, “Combat proficiencies are calculated by a combination of your Base Attack Bonus, Primary Score for the weapon type – in this case dexterity, Feats, Racial abilities, Perks, Quirks, Advantages, Disadvantages where applicable, Buffs and any magical or non magical equipment bonuses that may or may not apply...” She rattled her explanation off mechanically, “Don't worry though, all the information you need is on the right hand side under the listing _Elvish +2 Composite Great Bow_.”

Hunk's eyes were glazed over.

“Just worry about playing your character, I'll tell you what to roll when and if you need to roll it...” Pidge sighed, she could already feel that this was going to be a very long night.

“So...” Hunk frowned, “I'm like a female elf Robin Hood with a pet bear...?”

“It's as good a parallel as any.” Pidge agreed, “Though think _Strider_ too, maybe a little bit of _Dutch_ from Predator...?” She paused, realising what she'd said, “Hunk... _please_ don't do the voice...”

“Geht to dah choppah!!” Was Hunk's overzealous response. “Wahrhoo!” A very long night indeed.

“When I made you that character...” Pidge sighed dejectedly, “I didn't expect that Fallen-Leaf Gladerunner, a _female_ Elf Ranger was going to sound like _that..._ ”

“My bear needs a name...” Hunk ignored Pidge's complaints, scrawling down _Mr. Bahdneuz T. Bear_ on it's sheet.

Allura and Coran were next to enter. The Princess daintily took her seat at the opposite end from Pidge, Coran settled himself beside Hunk. Almost unseen, both had grabbed and begun demolishing a fruity spastry snack. Whilst Coran examined his sheet, his frown growing ever more concerned, Allura was contenting herself to examine her very sparkly pink dice.

“What marvellous objects your latest project has produced, Pidge...” The Princess was fondling a 20 sided dice, “I wonder if it might also be able to produce jewellery...? Would that not be wonderful?”

Pidge shrugged, “You find me a design, I could probably whip something up...” The look of utter joy of Allura's face needed a distraction. Thankfully, the prodding of Coran's outstretched finger beside her provided it. “Yes...?” She turned to him.

“It says here that I'm a Human...” Coran mused, “Can't I be an Altean instead...?”

“Alteans don't really exist in this fictional reality...” Pidge began.

“Well, can't you just... Make it up?” Coran smiled hopefully, “I mean, really all you need to do is add about... 20 or so to all of these scores, maybe a smidge more? That'd be about right I think...”

Pidge shook her head, “Sorry Coran, part of the game is dealing with challenges. In fact it's a pretty big part...”

“Could I at least have some better armour...?” His expression was disturbing. Lips quivering, eyes bulging, tongue darting.

“Coran!” Allura chided, “Do not use the Hanbar Pout on Pidge. We have already established it does not work on humans. It is in fact a far lesser version of their own similar mind control ability, the _Puppy Dog Eyes_...”

Coran sighed, “Yes Princess...”

Allura nodded, smiled and returned her attention to Pidge, “I must apologise for my query, but I understand that for the duration of the game, I am a _Male_ and a _Barbarian_ by the name of _Karg..._ From our brief discussion, I understand the numbers and the many sided shapes interact to guide our progress in the shared story... Though, I am at a loss as to what an... _Orc_ is.”

Should have expected that, Pidge realised too late. Perhaps Human for Allura would have been easier... But Orc Barbarian is just so... _Archetypal..._ “Ummm... Ok, imagine they're...broader than Shiro...”

“Goodness!” Allura gasped, “That is _very_ broad indeed...”

Shiro kept an appreciative smile hidden. “Why do I need a collapsible 10ft pole...?” He mumbled, examining his sheet.

“In your case, you're about seven foot tall, even your muscles have muscles... Greyish green skin...sloping brows, protruding lower jaws with two tusks...” Pidge paused, “Aggressive, brutish, also honourable... They're not necessarily always _bad_ but they believe in solving things through strength rather than words.”

“I see...” Allura nodded, considering the information given and her sheet carefully, “My intelligence score is lower than what appears to be the average of the table... Am I... _Stupid_...?”

Pidge gave Allura a curious look, she was picking things up faster than anyone else at the table, “Well, Karg _is_ of below average Intelligence, yes... Though that's not to say you can't have a brutal cunning about you. Can't read though, but that's more of a class thing...a _Barbarian_ thing rather than an Orc thing...”

 Allura smiled brightly, “Thank you for the explanation, I shall do my best to be within the character...” She closed her eyes, scrunching up her face in concentration.

“Slightly better sword...? A nice fancy hat...?” Coran pleaded, “I'll give you less combat drills...”

“Check your equipment, Coran. Glorious Galan already _has_ a splendid tricorn hat.” Pidge glared, “And I will not be bribed so easily...” Her expression turned to a smile. “You'll need to do _much_ better.”

“Done!” Princess Allura suddenly declared her voice oddly muffled and awkward. The table turned to face her. They stared. “I must confess, the tusks may take some getting used to...” She tapped her now quite broad grey-ish-green-ish chin, smiled as best her new 'tusks' would allow. She had placed the slightly crunchier ends of a spastry treat at each corner of her lips. “It is rare to use my abilities for such frivolity! I must do this more often...” Something about the jarring _wrongness_ of her sing-song voice and the newly Orcish exterior caused the entire table to feel a part of their minds break.

Pidge nodded, clearly impressed, “Well...” She took a small red circular token from a pot behind her screen, “That kind of _dedication_ deserves an advantage roll token...” She passed the plastic marker over, “You can exchange it to re-roll any dice once and take the best result of the two...” Allura smiled in thanks. Before he could ask, “No Coran, you can't have one, they're _earned_.” The elder Altean pouted and grumbled beneath his breath.

 “Are we actually expecting Lance...?” Hunk queried, “I figured he'd brush this off as too nerdy...”

"He'd _better_ be along...” Pidge grumbled, “I didn't print that character and those dice off for nothing... And I'll have to adjust every encounter for a party of four... That'll just slow things down...”

“I'll make it an order if necessary...” Shiro assured the table, “Team Bonding is a vital part of our mission.”

Lance, they all assumed _fashionably_ late, sauntered in with a suitably attention grabbing swagger and a A4 black folder tucked beneath his arm, “Have no fear, your Lance is..” He paled, looking at Allura, fighting back the urge to cry out in shock, “A-Allura...you do something with your hair...?”

“Not Allura!” The princess responded, her voice needed a lot of work, “Me Karg of North Wilds!”

Lance smirked, “I didn't realise we needed costumes...”

“Sit down.” Pidge commanded, “We can get started at last.”

Lance playfully ruffled her hair, “Chill Pidge, I was just finishing off my character...” He sat himself at the last seat of the table, “Do I smell new shampoo...?” He queried, “Or is that just these fruit rolls...?”

Pidge regarded him with the level of scrutiny a biologist would a new species, “Sure, it's that one you _insisted_ I needed with the conditioner...” Idly flicking at a length of her hair.

“I _thought_ it felt softer...” Lance smiled.

“Yeah... I guess it does a little, it's kinda nice...” She admitted, “I always figured that conditioner was was just snake oil...” She caught herself mid beauty conversation and stopped herself, “Lance...what do you mean by _finishing off your character_...?”

He frowned, “Making sure I've got all my equipment, adding up the bonuses right...” He produced Pidge's phone, “Lucky you had some digital copies on here or I'd have _completely_ gotten my level 5 ability wrong. What else would I mean?”

Pidge's frown matched his and deepened, “I already made you a Pre-Made...”

Lance snorted a dismissive laugh, “Yeah, if I wanted to be bored stupid. Sorry, but I am _not_ playing a Sword and Board Fighter, Pidge. Might keep the sheet for hireling though... I _think_ I qualify for Leadership, but I wanted to run it by you before assuming. So many extras can get a handful... ” Cracking open his folder, he presented an almost immaculate looking sheet to her, followed by two additional pages. “You can check it out if you like, the only thing I wasn't sure of was if we were using Standard, Heroic or Legendary Array for Stats, so I made all three just in case. Changes a few feat selections here and there but nothing major. I mean, surely you don't _roll_ for stats...? That'd be as crazy as using _THAC0_...” He looked to the group. “There something in my teeth...?”

The entire table stared at him dumbfounded, none more so than Pidge. “Ok... so, two questions... Who are you? And what have you done with Lance?” Hunk demanded.

“Still Lance _and..._ I probably _shouldn't_ say what I've done with myself in polite company...” That earned him a groan from the table as a whole. The Blue paladin grinned, “I've got an Uncle back home, friend of the family kind of Uncle. He was _crazy_ into all this stuff. Used to run adventures for the family and some of the other local kids.” His attention turned to the ever more confused looking Pidge who was staring at one section, “That one's from Unfettered...”

“I _know_ it's from Unfettered Feats Four...” Pidge interrupted, “I also know this weird half bard half rogue comes from Bardic Badassery... I'm just _shocked_ that you do... And you're sure you're going to be ok being a _mostly_ support class...? Your combat ability is pretty lame, at least until you hit level 8 with the Resonating Blade ability...” She handed him back the sheets, “Though I do like the weapon you've customised... We're actually using the Legendary array, so ignore these two... And no to Leadership for now, for exactly the reasons you already mentioned...”

Lance smiled, “That's cool. No Leadership, I guess I'll just take Skill Focus: Perform Violin. Legendary array actually evens out my combat ability a little. I just wanted to make the best Diplomancer I could. Combat's fun and all, but it's nicer to have options.”

“Ok... Well, this is certainly interesting new information...” Pidge nodded thoughtfully, “Nice that someone will occasionally want to _talk_ rather than kill everything... Also kinda glad I don't need to teach _everyone_ at the table every little thing... ”

“I know. You looked a little nervous. No worries, Pidge. I'll support the party and my DM...” One of his warm _just_ _so_ smiles caught her a little off guard, only made worse by his softly intoned, “That sound good, Dungeon Master?”

“Karg want smash!” Allura demanded, “Puny enemies of Karg shall suffer!”

“You'll give them _the choppah_!” Hunk added. “ _Enough talk!_ ”

“Glorious Galan is on the hunt for wealth and glory!” Coran seemed to only be a more brooding intense version of his own voice.

“May...uh... _Ao_ guide us...?” Shiro shrugged.

Lance nudged him, “Loosen up and try Scottish. Everyone knows Dwarves are best when they're Scottish...”

Shiro reluctantly nodded, “Aye lad!” He instantly smiled, “The blighters 'n' beasties oot there willnae stand a chance!” He laughed, “Hey, you're right, Lance... That really works...” He was very thankful to have known a very vocal Scot back in his Garrison days. He never thought the slang would come in useful before now.

“Lance? Ooo iiiz...? Bonjour...” Lance's cheesy French accent made the table all chuckle, “Leon DeBleu, at your service...”

“Leon DeBleu...?” Pidge scoffed.

“Names are hard, ok...?” Lance pouted.

Pidge breathed in again, “Alright... The five of you are already established adventurers, but until now you've never crossed paths... Following your latest adventure, you find yourself in a tavern in the small village of _Holmdell..._ ”

* * * * * * * * * * 

The rain pelted heavily against the thatched roof of the inn. A musty smell hanging in the air, wet dog, stale tobacco, the ripe tang of peasant armpits and dirt, everywhere dirt. Patrons gather gloomily in some corners, rowdily in others. The village's population are mostly humans with a few half elves and half orcs among them. Night draws in, the darkness only fought back by the candles and sputtering torches within the wooden building. Amongst the usual serfs, dirt farmers and vagabonds, five individuals stand out like dragons among cattle.

Propping up the bar, a beautiful Elf with braided blonde hair, she is garbed in a simple grey cloak with masterfully crafted leather armour. Her quick forest green eyes dart about the bar for any possible threat, one hand upon a flagon of beer the other never far either from her scabbards or her ornate yet deadly longbow. Her mind however is set very much upon her beloved animal companion, a sturdy black bear forced to wait outside in what is not far off a storm. Sat at one of the many heavy tables, a bellowing Orc in fur armour has challenged the most burly of the farmhands to arm wrestling, a small pile of copper and silver piling beside him. The heavy set brute's grey-green skin is covered in a latticework of every manner of scar imaginable, from a raw looking burn to a canine bite mark. All his hair has been meticulously or else violently removed, His garish pink dyed armour draws a lot of odd attention from the patrons, his steely black eyes return their gazes with fury.

“Pink is colour of _death_ in North Wilds...” The Orc growls with a feminine tone that nobody would have ever expected of him, “Karg can show if small men wish...?” More to the point, nobody was going question the matter and risk angering Karg.

A raven-haired Dwarf sits quietly with a pipe in one large hand and his holy book in the other. He knows the words well, but keeps them always in his heart. Under his simple brown clerical vestments, a hefty set of solid steel Dwarven full plate armour accented with bronze. He glances over his pince-nez reading spectacles with heavy lidded smoke-grey eyes. Eyes that have seen far too much. He furrows his heavy brow, twitching his immaculately plaited beard as he blows a smoke ring, then returns to his book and freshly placed mug of mead. What caught his eye was a man who seems part splendid matador and part steel siege engine. A shock of fiery red hair upon his head and a hearty laugh to his lips, the golden skinned human has clearly spent a great deal of time polishing his blueish-silver mythril breastplate and matching gauntlets. His carved roaring lion pauldrons were pristine. Beneath the armour, a finely pressed red and white dress uniform of a kingdom nobody recognised. Slung about his shoulders a heavy crossbow and a steel kite shield. Strapped, sheathed, squirrelled and otherwise secreted about his person, melee weapons from a simple stout club to a one and half handed broadsword.

“Ten!” The armour-clad human declared, “No, twenty... _Thirty_ monstrous...ummm...” His knowledge of local fauna failed him, “Gully Dwarfs! Yes! Came slavering and growling toward me! I held them off with my halberd, but as the beasts came closer, I had no choice but to resort to fisticuffs! Glorious Galan you see, is never caught off guard!” His tale was impressing one or two younger farmhands, though he was largely – much to his obvious dismay – being ignored.

Sat in one darkened corner was a half elven man, tanned, slight of frame and dressed in the type of blue silken courtesan's outfit that only a select few could pull off without looking entirely absurd. He was clearly of some financial means, given his outfit and his exceptionally ornate musical instrument, a violin that was a piece of darkwood art, chestnut browns to whorls of ebony and the unmistakable hum of magic about it. Perhaps the lost son of a noble or simply a handsome man of expensive taste. The smiling man, with placid hazel eyes, a short brown ruffle of hair and a restless day's worth of stubble was content to simply allow his breathtakingly intricate violin's jaunty rhythm fill the air of the bar as he worked a curious looking bow to the strings. All who heard it felt their spirits slightly uplifted, the cares of the day and even the rain outside fading away.

As night drew darker, the villagers begin a slow, groggy and in many cases swaying walk into the darkness and back to their long suffering significant others. The barmaid, a pretty yet homely Half-Orc made a call for last orders. The five strangers to the village realise that between the rain and their recent day's journey, they are left with little choice but to hope the inn has enough rooms to accommodate them all for the evening. They approach the bar together, cautious of each other. The first to break the silence between them is Karg.

“Pretty part-Orc! Give Karg sleep!” Karg slaps a handful of copper and silver to the bar, “Karg pay good!”

The barmaid, at first horrified and then furious, glares at Karg, “What kind of establishment do you think this is...?”

“Dear Lady...” The softly spoken musician interjects, smiling cordially, “Leon DeBleu, weaver of tales and singer of songs, I am most honoured to make your acquaintance... Miss...?” His eyes smoulder.

“M...M...Marceline...” The barmaid uneasily stammers.

“Miss Marceline... What Karg here _meant_ , yet put so _indelicately_ is that he is but a weary traveller, looking to rent one of your rooms. I am certain he did not mean to imply that you are a lady of... _dubious employment_...”

“Goodness!” Karg held a hand to his mouth with a gasp, “I had not even considered...”

“So, if we may, my dear, begin this conversation once again...?” His eyes had not once left hers, “Dear Madame, will you help a weary traveller to his slumber...? How much for bed and board for the night...?”

Marceline stared silently, face turning a subtle shade of red.

“Ummmm...” Glorious Galan poked the barmaid on the forehead. “Is this supposed to happen...?”

“Karg... _Break_ pretty part-Orc...?”

“Marceline...?” Leon ventured, “Ummmm... _Pidge_...?”

From across the bar, the green steely eyes of an Elven Ranger take aim. Held between thumb and finger, a spastry treat. She hurled the confection across the bar...

 * * * * * * * * * *

...and it's crispy outer coating smushed into Pidge's forehead. “Hey! What the _Quiznak_ Hunk!?”

“Bullseye...” The yellow paladin smirked.

Shiro shot him a warning glare.

“Pidge, are you alright...?” Lance, a genuine tone of concern in his voice almost pleaded, “You kinda spaced out on us there...”

“You got fruit goo on my glasses, you ass!” Pidge grumbled, wiping them clean would be a waste of time, so she set them aside. “You'd better hope Olkari Strawberry doesn't stain glass... And yes, Lance, I'm fine... Don't be so over dramatic...” She cleared her throat, “Where were we...? Oh, right... Leon had just negotiated a room... Ummm... _Marceline nods, the misunderstanding now cleared up_. _However, suddenly..._ ” 

 


	2. Gargantuan Pea-Brained Wee Jobby!

 

...A figure hurtles themselves desperately through the heavy door of the inn. He makes a last gargling gasp, falling face down to the straw covered floorboards in a pool of his own darkening blood. Embedded in his back, a moldy wooden arrow shaft with threadbare feathering. Marceline screams, running to the upper floors.

“Y' are _nae_ aboot t'die lad!” The Dwarven Cleric shoves the other four aside, leaping as quickly as his stubby legs can carry him. Staring down at the life fading from the human's eyes, he knows it's too late. He offers the failing human a small flourish of divine energy and a mumbled prayer to ease his passing, “Y'can be at peace... Y'll be in y'r next life soon...”

With his last breath, the last of his strength, the man points into the hammering rainfall, “Dead...” he croaks, “Walking...” With a boom of thunder, a flash of lighting, everyone can see for a moment that the villagers are running madly about, pursued by slow, implacable and ghoulish assailants. Looking closer, they all seem to be pouring from the nearby chapel.

“Ao's ancient _arse_...” The Dwarf breathes in horror, “Ah never seen so many Undead...” He turns with a frown to the rest of the group, “Dinnae jes' stan' 'ere starin' y'buncha _wazzocks,_ 'ese people need 'r _help_!!” With hammer raised and holy symbol glowing about his neck, the black haired dwarf goes running into the fray.

“Tiny hairy man not take all Karg's skellingtons!!” The Barbarian hurtled after.

“Glorious Galan's going to...ummm...well, I suppose re-dead-ulate the lot of you!! For glory!!” The hulk of a human grasped at a pair of heavy maces, rushing forward with a bellowing war cry.

Leon turned to the Elf, “And what of you, Miss? Surely, you aren't just going to stand there? You a  _mercenary_ or something...?”

Until now, she had remained utterly silent. She stared down the foppish half-elf, “ _I'm no mercenary._ ” Her unexpectedly deep voice responded in an accent that must have been from the strangest and most deadly of the forests, “ _Nobody pays me. And if I think somebody owes me something, I take it._ ” Hitching her bow free, the elf began to slowly stride into the fray. Wordlessly, she nodded to her side, a furious black bear sparking into frenzied life.

Leon smiled to himself, violin at the ready. He began to play, his metal bow drawn from a scabbard at his side. His Half-Elven tongue danced over the heavy Draconic language as he sang a tale of mighty warriors overcoming insurmountable odds, heroes marching through flame and through fire.

With a hissing death rattle, the skeletal warriors turned to face the new threat head on. Well, skull on.

“Ah, away wi' ye!!” The Dwarven Cleric raised his holy symbol, a silver set of scales set against a black and white bisected circle, hooked upon a heavy steel chain. Glowing with radiant divine light, a horde of undead retreated against it, one of their number slowly forcing itself towards the light, “Ah said... Away!!” His hammer shattering the skeleton to dust.

Karg was hurling his double handed great axe about with reckless abandon, a swinging arc of battle-worn steel smashed and splintered through three skeletons before they could even react, “Skellingtons weak!!” Karg roared, “Karg destroy!!”

Keeping his wits about him, Glorious Galan caved in the skulls of two more undead with each swing of his twin maces, “They may be weak, Karg!” He warned, “But don't let them flank you or they'll get a +2 to hit, if I'm reading this chart right...” Lightning struck Galan. This was just a warning, the smoky and frazzled human understood. Next time it would be harsher.

A snarling mass of fur and fury smashed into a crowd of skeletons. As two raised their rusted swords to strike at the bear, two arrows whistled through the air in defiance, “ _I've got a bone to pick with you two..._ ” The almost emotionless quip echoed, the arrows decapitating each skeleton easily. The Elf Ranger drew her swords, returning her bow to her back.

Leon's performance intensified, the tempo increasing and the draconic lyrics growing ever more manic, his voice ringing loud even above the storm. Rushing toward him with a rusted two handed sword raised, a skeletal assailant learned the true nature of his sturdy metal violin bow. With an almost lighting quick flourish from instrument to ribcage, Leon slashed out with the sharpened side. Both short sword and bow in one, Leon returned to his playing as the Skeleton crumbled.  
  
Yet more skeletons emerged from the darkness, the crowd about Bahdneuz each struck out with their blades. The animal roared in pain as one cut deep into the meat of it's shoulder. From the darkness, a fusillade of arrows all miss their mark but one. Karg finds an arrowhead embedded deep into his kneecap, but shows not a moment of pain.   
  
The Dwarven Cleric continues his turning, an ever larger group of the undead being pushed back into the chapel grounds. With a stern frown, the diminutive holy man growls, “Ah, pish!! Why's 'is _nay_ _working_!?”  
  
“Why is what not working, sir Dwarf?” Glorious Galan calls above the din. “You seem to be driving them back just fine!!”

“Talky man Galan wait turn!” The muscular barbarian pouted, “It Karg's time to smash!!”

“Talking's a free action!” Galan responds, dodging another warning bolt of lightning. “What!? It's _true_ isn't it!?”

“See 'at graveyard?” The cleric called, “It oughta be _consecrated_...” He considered his extensive religious training for a moment. “It musta been _corrupted..._ Means some bugger wi' access to the chapel _planned_ this...” 

“Small Hairy man and Talky Man hush!! Karg...” The massive orc smiled, shattering another pair of skeletons, a third struggling to hold onto it's un-life, splayed on the floor. “...Do what Karg do best!!”  
  
“Nice job, Karg!” Galan swings with his maces, only to find the rain slick weapons both slip from his hands, tumbling and clattering to the floor in opposite directions. “What are the odds...? Less than a percent I'll wager...” A skeleton turns to Galan with a malevolent glow in it's sockets, “Quiznak...”  
  
“ _What is the leg bone connected to?_ ” Fallen-Leaf pressed the gap between herself and her wounded animal companion, “ _My swords_...” With two swift strokes, two more skeletons fell. Bahdneuz swiftly dismantled the third, falling full force with his claws and bulk alike. “ _Looks like you were more than he could bear._ ”  
  
Leon's performance continued to sound above the clamor of battle, even as he carefully scrutinized the positions of each enemy. The last few skeletons seemed content to leave the minstrel to his craft, closing in on Galan and Karg. A few more of the undead horde fired their grave-caked arrows toward the Dwarven Cleric, two striking hard. Galan's newest foe sinks a rusted short sword between armored plates, slicing a deep gouge.

“Y' jakey boney buggers!” The Cleric turned to the Orc barbarian, “Karg, right?! Think y'can deal wi' 'ese lads afore me, aye?”

“Karg not sure Karg understand... But Karg happy to help small Hair Man!” Karg's massive body smashed through his last skeleton foe, charging upon the group now pushed back to the chapel grounds and letting his axe do the talking. “Small Hair Man _too weak_...?”

The Cleric ignored the insult with a huff, raising his hand, “Sunlight! Reveal my foes!” Calling upon his divine patron, a glowing area of pure and brilliant energy bathed the skeleton archers, “You there, Elf Ranger, can you deal wi' 'em lads...?”

“Don't mind me!” Galan called, “I'll just deal with this one with my fists, shall I?” Surely enough, though even Galan was surprised by the outcome, one punch was all it took. “Ha! You see that! That... is what you _get_ son! Luck? Ha, luck nothing! Pure skill.”

Fallen-Leaf nodded to the Dwarf, “ _Take an arrow to the marrow, bone boys._ ” She let loose a salvo of sharpened fury, the archers all falling to piles of splintered bones. Last of all, Bahdneuz barrelled into the last of the skeletons, shattering it's skull and crunching it between his ferocious jaws as he pounced. “ _I guess you could call that a bonemeal._ ”

Leon holstered his bow, placed his violin to an exquisite brown leather bag upon his back. “Well...” The bard nodded about, “Anyone have any idea where they came from..? Dead don't rise by themselves, do they Sir Dwarf?”

“Aye lad, the' dinnae... Name's nae _Sir Dwarf_ nor _Small Hair Man_ neither...” He glared to Karg, “Lysander of Clan Mythrilbeard, Cleric of Ao. An' wha'ever shite-bag animated these undead, I'll bet they be nearby...”

“Karg is Karg!” Karg confirmed Kargishly, “Small hair man think we need _find_ someone...? Karg can track feets in ground...”

Lysander nodded, “I'm sure the Elf Ranger can as well... By the way miss, your name...?”

“ _Fallen-Leaf Gladerunner._ ” She responded, “ _Fallen-Leaf is fine._ ”

“Well...” The commanding Dwarf turned to the group, “I've a hunch. Whoe'er done this...” He looked about, the freshly upturned earth said it all, “Wuz plannin' it f'r awhile. They knew t' _desecrate_ the land, to raise up their undead forces. Tha' wouldnae have been a small job t'do... Ah reckon it's some folk who wouldnae look suspect oot in the graveyard a' nigh'....”

“Grave Digger then?” Leon offered, helping Galan pick up his maces, “Or maybe the local priest...? Either way... The Chapel's closest. We trying there first? Maybe...get out of this rain...?”

“If our enemy is within...” Galan thoughtfully and cautiously said, nursing his wound, “Then it would be prudent to tend to our injuries before we go further... No time or place to rest really, we might lose our quarry...”

Glade-Runner was already on her knees, tending with a small flourish of green natural energy to the wounds of Bahdneuz. “ _There you go boy. Good as new. What have I told you about getting too friendly with the locals...?_ ” Bahdneuz snorted back.

“I can take care of a few minor wounds...” Leon began to whistle a melody of healing, _clair de Lurue._ It wasn't strictly _necessary_ to do it, but it helped him focus as he tended first to the wounds of Karg and then to Lysander, “Better we save your more potent healing abilities until we _really_ need them, Forge-Father Mythrilbeard.”

“Ah away w' ye and _bally titles_!” Lysander protested, “Y'figh' by m' side, we's _kin..._ Y' ken...? Lysander'll do _fine_.”

“ _Enough talk_...” A phrase that she was seemingly well versed with, Glade-Runner began to stride purposefully toward the chapel.

“Pointy ear shoot lady wait for Karg!” Karg trotted eagerly behind. “Karg call you... _Glade_... For short...”

“What about the villagers...?” Galan protested, “Surely we need to tend to them as well...?”

Leon nodded helpfully to a crowd of peasants, “The local apothecary, chirugeon...” he paused sadly, “And  _undertaker..._ Seem to have things well in hand, Galan.” He frowned, “Though, the local  _priest_ seems oddly absent... Galan, our job now is to track down whoever or  _whatever_ did this so it doesn't get worse...”

Nodding in silent agreement, Galan followed Lysander, Leon, Glade-Runner and Karg beneath the ancient stonehewn lychgate and into the chapel grounds proper. All around the party, signs of the restless dead are obvious. Headstones have been pushed aside, coffins smashed from within, earth hideously and unnaturally shoved aside, burial shrouds torn to ribbons. An entire ancient generation of village elders remains had been unceremoniously ripped from their resting places. Those with the nose for it, all sense the foul taint of dark magic hanging in the air, like invisible yet cloying smoke. Glade-Runner's keen eyes meanwhile spot something amiss. 

“ _It's only the long dead who have risen..._ ” She explained, “ _The most recent burial is a year old. It produced no undead_...”

Leon considered many an ancient tale and rhyme, finally settling upon  _the melancholy shades of momonga_ for his answer, “There's an old Genasi fable...” He explained, “Loses a lot in translation to  _common tongue_ but it deals with an attack of arch necromancer upon a holy site. It's said that the true artists of undeath can spread thin their energies to make many a weak thrall or condense their power for a more potent single servant... I  _think_ that's what we're seeing here. Magic weak enough to animate skeletons on a large scale, not quite potent enough to raise the recent dead... That's why these skeletons were a cakewalk...”

“So...” Galan swallowed his fear, “Does that mean we might find a more powerful undead creature inside...?”

“Aye...” Lysander warned, “'At's _very_ likely, Galan...”

“Karg not care!” The barbarian roared, a roost of bats fluttering free from the chapel belfry at the sudden din, “Karg turn the big-dead thing to even _bigger_ dead!! None stop _Karg_!!”

“Lucky we didn't intend for the element of _surprise_ eh, Karg...?” Galan frowned.

“Earth, Wind, Fire, Water and Quintessence...” Karg replied, “Surprise not elly-ment, silly human!”

The chapel was hardly a massive thing, clearly built centuries ago from the best masonry humanity could manage, which is to say, quite rough yet surprisingly sturdy. A single bell tower stretches feebly to the storm clouded skies. The rest of the building is pretty typical in design, not out of place in many a European village except that the gargoyles not only depict fiends of the pit but recognizable foes. Among them are Bugbears, lesser dragons and even a particularly well carved Beholder, each of it's eyes filled with malevolence. A heavy oaken door on stout iron hinges stands before the group as they gather under the opening archway. Leon, raising his hand to pause the group, slowly approaches the door.

“Why music-man knock first?” Karg demanded. “Karg knock hardest.”

Leon produced a slender probe and pick from a kit hidden piecemeal about his person, “As far as I can tell...” He assured the others as he jiggled and twisted his tool in the keyhole, “This door is neither locked, nor trapped... But if there are  _enemies_ within, we can't afford to take a risk...”

Karg shoved Leon aside, opening the door with the ease a child would lose a balloon. “Bad skellington maker!?” Karg called into the gloomy chapel, “Where bad skellington maker be!?”

“Karg, ye gargantuan, pea-brained wee jobby!” Lysander hissed, “Ha' y' ne'er heard o' _subtlety_...?”

“Ha!” Karg barked a laugh, “Karg call Karg's _axe Suttel-Tee_ now! It Orc-tongue for...” Karg paused, pointed, “...a man's part!”

The group stifled a collective giggle and smirk. In another higher realm, a token of reward is doled out.

“May I help you, weary travellers...?” The tired voice of an elder abbot calls from the far end of the chapel. The grey robed and pale human man, wizened sallow features as sombre as his expression, bags beneath his eyes darker than the sky outside, wanders between lines of rough pews, occasionally rainbow illuminated by lightning flashes through the stained glass windows, each cluttered archway referencing divine beings from _Ilmater_ to _Kord_. “Our humble chapel, welcomes you of course on this most terrible of nights... Though I'm afraid we have no place for you to comfortably sleep...”

“Where _bad bones maker_ , old soft man...?” Karg growled, tapping his hefty axe “Suttel-Tee _will split you_ if you lie...”

Already ashen pale, the abbot turns ghostly, “Bad bones maker...? I don't...  _What!?_ ” He turns in desperation toward Lysander, “You, you seem to be a man of gods... What in all the planar cosmos is he talking about...?”

“Karg!” Lysander barks, “Y'willnae hurt 'im... Aye?” The furious Orc nods in reply. “'At's a good lad...” The dwarf sets a stony expression upon the abbot, “Are y'no _aware_ o' what's occurin' oot in Holmdell, Priest...?”

“I know...” He smiles, “That these rains have blessed the farmers this day...”

“ _Bullshit._ ” Glade-Runner interrupts, her sneer accompanied by Bahdneuz's faint growl, “ _Heavy rain this bad in such a short space of time will turn a tilled field to a bog._ ” Her knowledge of the natural world proving useful.

“Is that so...?” The Priest smiles kindly, “Well, I am but a simple man whose life has been given to the greater good of serving the many pantheons. I am no farmer. Though, I am sure...that with every hardship comes new strength.”

“We're not talking about the _rain_!!” Galan protested, “There's a bunch of walking corpses out there, maybe you could do some priestly stuff, get the blighters back in the ground...?”

“Skeletons you say...?” The priest tsked, “How awful. Though, I am no warrior. I will simple have to prepare the chapel to receive the wounded villagers. Perhaps you five might aid me in this task...?”

Leon chuckled softly, drawing his violin with a smirk, “Who...?” He asked, “Mentioned these undead were...  _Skeletons_ ...?”

The priest frowned savagely, his lips curling to a fierce snarl, “No matter!” He flings his arms wide, a dark spectral force wrapping about his body and pooling amidst the pews like a sickly purple miasma. “My role was always to merely slow down anyone who might interfere...” His eyes fill with that same unnatural light, a cruel knife of a smile to his lips. 

Karg, raising his axe high, rushes forward, “ _Bad Bone Maker!!_ Meet your  _Breaker!!_ ”

Leon, thinking back to the limerick, _Vecna's Gambit_ suddenly cries out, “Wait, Karg stop!!”

But the bard is too slow, Karg's rage too great. With a sickening crunch, the heavy bladed head of Suttel-Tee sinks deep into the torso of the malevolently smiling human. With a rasping laugh, he grasps the haft of the axe and pulls it still deeper with a satisfied grunt. As the light of his foul magic and the light of his eyes both fade, his body is consumed by the necromantic energy, all swirling together and coalescing above the pews. From the dusty floor, hidden among the seating, piles of smooth white, scorched brown and ancient rotten objects rise. Shattering through the windows, scattering multi-hued glass into the air, still more come. Familiar and previously smashed, shattered. Bones. A maelstrom of bones fuse, form, grow and connect. A scowling face of countless fused skulls glares toward them from atop a vaguely humanoid nightmare of death. It screams an inhuman battle cry. A cascade of bone shaped crudely as a fist and massive arm slammed  _hard_ against Karg, it sent the Orc hurtling like a rag doll.

“What the Wozblay is it!?” Galan, not quite so glorious, flings himself madly to the floor and hidden behind a stone pillar. Of all of them, only he was to succumb to the terrifying howl.

“Bone Golem, Undead Gestalt, Necromantic Horror, _take your pick_!” Leon shouted, scrambling his way to a more defensible position, the tone of _The Sabre Dance_ already sounding from his violin. “The old man must have been the sacrifice necessary to complete the ritual to create it!”

“Aye lad...” Lysander grumbled, “All o' us h've eyes... An if y'dinnae realise... We be all 'at c'n stop it...” He pulled his hammer free of it's holster and raised a hand wrapped in divine energy. “Take to thee a soothing balm, let your heart be filled with calm...”

The celestial energy circled Galan like a blanket. “Y'with me, Galan?” The stern nod was all the confirmation Lysander needed.

Glade-Runner meanwhile silently climbs the rough hewn stone walls of the chapel, making her way up a pillar and toward the wooden rafters. Her bear companion waits, impatiently growling at the vast bone creature.

Karg, with a groan and groggy moan stands to his feet. A thin line of dark red blood trails from beside his leftmost tusk. The orc spits defiantly, grasping his great axe's haft savagely. “A  _worthy_ foe...” He smiles hungrily.

Turning toward the wall, the bone-creature strides purposefully forward and begins to pound heavily on the chapel walls, shattering more of the ancient stained glass and causing the whole building to shake, clouds and tufts of dust either pluming or tumbling from the stonework.

“Tha' grea' wee shite...” Lysander grumbled to himself, “'E's tryin' t' ge' ootside! It willnae attack us _unless_ we try'n' stop it!”

“Glorious Galan...” The self-referring fighter draws a hefty sword and his kite shield. “...Doesn't know the word _try_... It's do...” He charges forward, “Or die!!” His sword jinks harmlessly off the bone beast's leg. “Oh _come on_!!”

Leon's  _Sabre Dance_ continues to play, “Hey Galan! Did you... _forget_ about  _the song_ ...? Maybe you should...  _Re-evaluate_ ...?” A grumble of thunder sounds above, “Hey!” Leon protests, “He's still new... And that one liner,  _was_ pretty cool...” He smirked, winking at the sky. The thunder answers softly.

Galan stares bewildered for a moment then suddenly realises his sword did indeed connect, splintering a chunk of the creature's leg away, “Thanks Leon! I owe you a pint or two later!”

“More of a fine wine and mead sort! I hope your coin can stretch so far!” Leon retorted.

Lysander grits his teeth and charges headlong toward the bone monstrosity, smashing a heavy hammer blow against a kneecap. The beast shudders but does not fall. It turns its sights upon the cleric. “I've 'ad  _shites_ meaner'n yoo...”

Glade-Runner has finally scrambled her way into the rafters. Considering the situation before her, she nods to Karg. The Barbarian needs no encouragement, hurling himself with murderous contempt toward the bone-creature, hacking into the arm that had previously sent him flying. Following shortly behind, Bahdneuz backed up the barbarian with several feral swipes at the giant.

Still surveying, Glade-Runner smiled to herself. Above her, the timbers holding firm the roof. Before her, a series of horizontal beams between each far wall of the chapel. The wall behind her was the last piece of the puzzle. A heavy iron fitting from where long ago a lantern or chandelier may once have hung.

Turning to her with a quizzical expression, the bone creature asked in an otherworldly voice, “You want... To do  _what_ ...?”

 

* * * * * * * * * *

 

“I think the note is pretty self explanatory, Pidge...” Hunk smirked taking another bite of a spastry treat, “And before you say it, _yes_ I know it's not going to last. It doesn't have to last long at all... Just long enough to get to the last stage...”

Pidge sighed glancing and double checking the math and diagrams that she already knew full well were correct, “Why did I give the engineer  _engineering_ as a skill...? Why did I give the  _Ranger_ engineering...? Oh that's right, I thought you'd use it to make pit traps or  _snares_ or simple wooden and rope things... Not...  _This..._ ” Pidge shook the note.

“It's all wooden and rope though...” Hunk chuckled.

By now the rest of the table were exchanging confused glances.

“Ok, fine. Give me a decent roll to apply your knowledge, I'll ask for another later to make sure it all works...” The green paladin grumbled, though secretly she was quite impressed to see something more inventive around the table than _I hit it_ as a plan.

“Ok...” Hunk rolled his D20, watching the small dice tumble over the table. “19 gonna do it?”

“Yeah, only _just_.” Pidge smiled, “Alright... So, you taking your turn now?”

Hunk nodded, satisfied.

 

* * * * * * * * * * 

 

“ _Keep at it!_ ” Glade-Runner yells to the group, though mostly to her bear, “ _I have a plan..._ ” Tying a rope to the iron fixture very securely, she then breaks off a couple of the roof beams above. She calls, “ _Leon! Go!! The other end of the chapel!!_ ”

Ponderously, the undead monstrosity turns it's attention once more to Karg. A fist of bone as potent as a great-hammer blow smashes into the meat of the Orc's shoulder. Karg struggles to stay upon his feet, the creature rises another fist to strike. 

Galan swipes his blade hard into the same spot as before. Whilst the creature cannot feel pain, it does begin to stumble.

Leon meanwhile, following Glade-Runner's previous advice, nods in response. Leaping the line of pews gracefully, his music still playing flawlessly. He soon comes to a stop at the far end of the chapel against a stone wall. He notices that through a small archway, they can easily reach the bell tower and a staircase leading down into a darkened basement. Standing himself behind a lectern depicting a golden-brass phoenix, Leon waits.

Lysander, with a heaving grunt, brings his hammer down hard against the same leg as Galan, pressing the team's growing advantage. Something shatters, as dark purple energy coils and roils from the gaping hole. 

Smiling with murderous intent, Karg leaps and scrambles to the freshly opened wound. With a bestial cry, the barbarian plunges his great-axe head first into the swirling necrotic energy,  _twists_ and hefts the blades free. A shower of razor-sharp bone fragments burst forth, the creature knows  _pain_ for the first time as it screams it's many jaws and glares with many empty sockets. It falls to one leg, a chilling miasma of energy rising from it's hunched form.

Knowing that the tide will soon shift again, Glade-Runner hurries her plan along. The nimble fingered elf cuts off and ties four medium lengths of her rope tying it at each end of her pair of broken beams securely. With the remaining length of rope, she hurls one end far across the beams ahead of her. One end trails and falls a few feet away from Leon. With a nod, she directs Bahdneuz alongside the bard, the bear grasps onto the length of rope in it's powerful jaws. “ _Everyone! Hold fast! Wait!_ ”

“Dinnae talk pish!!” Lysander shouts back, “While y'er up 'ere playing wi' ropes, we're _killing '_ is bony bag o' crap!!”

“ _Trust me, Lysander!_ ” Glade-Runner insists, “ _Hold!_ ”

With a quick glance, Galan nods, calling upon his own limited knowledge of the principles of engineering. “I think...” Galan offered cautiously, “I  _might_ know what she's trying to do...”

Throwing it's arms wide and with a hideous cry, the amalgamation of bones unleashes a wave of necrotic energy, sapping life and warmth from everything and everyone about him. Karg cries out in pain and fury.

“ _Leon! Grab the rope and hold on tight! Everybody else, wait for me!_ ” Stepping carefully, Glade-Runner grabs the longest rope at particular spots, “Over...under, grab. Over...under, grab...” Taking one last look about, she hurls a handful of oil flasks about, the glass shattering on the far corners of the wooden beams. With a graceful leap, she abseils down the two rope lengths, letting them fall slack between the beams. Into these, she nestles her two lengths of broken wood. She turns to the group, gesturing at the medium lengths of rope on each end of each wooden beam. “ _Now! Tie it up! Do it nao!! Tighter! Don't stahp!!_ ” Obeying with silent nods, Galan and Lysander begin to work a length each loosely around the bone beast's arm, struggling against it's thrashing. 

“Karg destroy!” The Orc spat furiously, contemptuously, “Not tie up enemy!! _Destroy_ enemy!!”

“Karg!” Galan insists, “Rope destroy enemy good! Karg trust Galan! Galan _friend_... Friend...?”

“Galan _not_ pattern-eyes Karg. Karg smaller thinks, but Karg not _child_...” The Orc glowered, “But will trust Galan...” He hurried to tie two lengths hard about the creature's waist like a slack rope belt.

The undead thing chattered it's bony mouths menacingly. Swiping savagely at Galan, the creature only managed to make the fighter's sturdy steel shield ring like the peal of a bell as the attack was deflected aside. 

Already mid sprint toward Leon and the bell tower, Glade-Runner calls, “ _C'mon, let's go!!_ ” Karg more reluctantly than others, but all break away from the battle with the vast conglomeration of bones and dark magic. “ _Grab the rope everyone!!_ ”

The ropes barely impede the creature as it stomps toward the church wall once again and begins to pound.

“Ok, so we're nae a _threat_ nae more... 'At _still mean_ 'e's going fer _Holmdell_!! 'Ose rope's won't hold...” Lysander paused, the copper piece suddenly dropped, “They arenae meant tah _hold_... Fallen-Leaf... 'At's _bloody genius_!!”

“Pardon this mere musician...” Leon ventures, “Maybe it is just one of many lessons I skipped in my wilder youth, or perhaps I am simply not thinking straight, fearful as I am that Monsieur Bahdneuz will make a snack of my most needed and most dextrous hands and fingers...” A hot grunt of a protesting bear rushed against his wrists, “But... _What are we doing_...?”

“ _Just pull when I give the signal._ ” Glade-Runner assured the group as she took aim with a flaming duo of arrows. With a soft outward breath, she watched with satisfaction as the oil bloomed to a new blazing life. “ _Pull it naoh!! Keep it held hard!!_ ”

With a collective mighty yanking, passing the rope between each set of hands in a smooth motion, the group watched as the rope snaked it's way over two rafters above, pulling and lifting the broken beams beneath. With a yelp of confusion and rage, the undead abomination was hoisted rapidly toward the ceiling, bashing it's bony bulk against the rafters.

“Ha!” Galan cheered over the group's straining and heaving, “It's only a dang pulley isn't it!”

“Aye! I's a perfec'ly _serviceable_ 3 pulley system. No' exac'ly no _Dwarven_ engineering, but fer it bein' a rush job, it's nae too shabby, Elf.” Lysander grunted as he held the rope, “Why'd y' se' the _beams_ afire though...?” A loud and ominous crack from above answered Lysander before Glade-Runner could speak a word.

Between the burning rafters, the weight of the thrashing bone-construct, it's fists hammering against them and the already weakened walls... The result was inevitable. Masonry, lead, slated tiles and blazing wood came crashing down after centuries of standing solemn and sentinel at the heart of Holmdell. An abomination cries it's last howling shriek before it is silenced. Taking cover, watching as the dust settles, the party looks to the cavernous wreck, the gaping hole to the stormy outside where the church walls and roof had once stood.   
  
Taking a thick and tightly rolled bundle of smoke-leaf to a burning piece of wood beneath her, Glade-Runner grins. “  _Smashes to smashes..._ ” She quips, the victory cigar firm between her teeth, “ _Crushed to crushed..._ ”

 


End file.
